‘Morning,’ James said. ‘You look pretty cheerful for someone whose golf cart turned into a flaming wreck.’
Shak shrugged as he sat down. ‘I wasn’t taking it as serious as you, and you know how luck has a way of evening out? I passed Meryl Spencer as she was pinning our assignments for work experience on the noticeboard.’
Dana’s eyebrows shot up – which was a rare occurrence for someone who acted disinterested as a matter of principle. ‘What did you get?’
‘Angel Graphics,’ Shak said happily. ‘It’s run by an ex-cherub. They do computer graphics and design mostly. 3D animation for adverts, kids’ TV and stuff like that.’
‘Sounds good,’ Dana said. ‘Did you see what everyone else got?’
‘You got Copthorne Racing.’
James broke into a big grin. ‘Cool, we’ll be together.’
Shak made a little grunt. ‘Do you think, Mr Adams?’
James stalled with a forkload of scrambled egg halfway between his plate and his mouth, but then carried on because he knew Shak was more upset about the golf-cart race than he was letting on and a successful wind-up would help him earn back some points.
‘You’re full of it,’ James sneered.
Shak grinned. ‘Go see for yourself. It’s pinned on the board outside Meryl’s office.’
James didn’t want to get sucked into a wind-up, but Dana had nothing to lose by enquiring further. ‘So who’s with me if James isn’t?’
‘Clare Lowell,’ Shak said, as he hooked an entire rasher of bacon on to the end of his fork and squeezed it into his mouth.
‘I thought you were Muslim,’ Connor said.
Shak grinned. ‘Some days I’m more Muslim than others.’
‘So,’ James said, still concerned that Shak was winding him up. ‘If I didn’t get work experience at Copthorne Racing, where am I going?’
‘Oh, that’s the beautiful part.’
Dana was starting to enjoy watching James suffer and she smiled. ‘What did he get?’
‘Deluxe Chicken,’ Shak said. ‘You know that crummy place in the car park outside the leisure centre?’
‘Yeah right,’ James said, shaking his head.
Shak reached across the table and put his hand out to shake. ‘Five pounds says I’m not lying.’
Shak was tight and James’ I don’t believe you expression wilted. ‘You’re really serious?’
Shak wiggled his fingers, inviting a handshake on the bet. ‘Five pounds, James.’
‘But I spoke to Terry Campbell about this,’ James moaned. ‘He knows how much I like motorbikes and he’s an old mate of Jay Copthorne. He all but promised that I’d get it.’
‘All but promised,’ Connor emphasised. ‘And who knows, maybe you’ll learn to love the polyester shirt and those orange and brown striped baseball caps …’
‘It’s chicktacular,’ Callum added, deepening his voice to sound like a man in a TV commercial. ‘Feed the whole family for under a tenner with our summer sizzlers.’
‘That’s not even a Deluxe Chicken advert,’ James said bitterly. ‘They’re so crap they couldn’t afford TV ads.’
‘You guys still haven’t heard the best bit,’ Shak beamed. ‘Guess who James’ little work-experience companion is going to be?’
James was starting to get angry. ‘How should I sodding know? Bugs Bunny?’
‘Think of someone you used to have a very close relationship with,’ Shak teased. ‘And by close, I mean hands down the back of her jeans.’
Dana laughed. ‘Not Kerry.’
‘Bingo bongo,’ Shak whooped.
James shot out of his seat. ‘Meryl’s got to be having a laugh. She knows how awkward it’s been since we broke up.’
‘Since you dumped her, you mean,’ Callum said. ‘Kerry might be going out with Bruce now, but she still hates your guts.’
James shook his head. ‘That’s a bit strong; I don’t think she hates my guts.’
Dana and Shak spoke in unison. ‘Yes she does, James.’
‘Totally,’ Connor nodded. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there was a little James doll with pins in it in her room.’
‘It must be a mistake,’ James said disbelievingly. ‘If it’s Kerry in Deluxe bloody Chicken I’ll refuse to do it.’
Connor shook his head. ‘Work experience is part of the campus curriculum. It isn’t optional and if you bunk it Meryl will dish out serious punishment laps.’
James grabbed his tray off the table. He threw it on to the conveyor belt that led into the washing-up room before storming off towards the lift. When he got up to the sixth floor, he checked the print-out pinned on the cork noticeboard. Just as Shak promised, his name was next to Deluxe Chicken and Kerry’s was on the next line down.
‘Tits,’ he spluttered, before turning around and pounding on the frosted glass in Meryl’s office door. But the light was out inside and rattling the handle confirmed that it was locked. It was too early for Meryl to be coaching and she hadn’t been in the dining-room, so James figured that she was most likely to be in the staff lounge on the first floor.
As he steamed back down the corridor towards the lift, Rat and Andy emerged from a bedroom.
‘Morning James,’ Rat said cheerfully.
‘All right?’ James asked half-heartedly. ‘How’s it going?’
He thought the pair were happy because of their victory in the golf-cart race the night before, but once he’d gone past they started making loud clucking noises and flapping their arms like wings.
‘Can I have fries with that?’ Rat shouted, before diving back into his room with Andy right behind him.
They stood behind the locked door howling with laughter. James wanted to have a go back, but the lift was waiting and he had to catch up with Meryl before first lesson.
Cherubs weren’t allowed into the staff lounge and James had to stand outside the door and wait for a member of staff to enter, then ask if they could see if Meryl was inside. It was a couple of minutes before anyone came by and Meryl took her sweet time coming out, which only made James angrier.
As well as being a handler who looked after the everyday needs of thirty-five cherubs, Meryl doubled up as an athletics coach. She came out of the lounge wearing a Nike waterproof and she had a whistle around her neck.
‘What’s up, James?’ Meryl asked. She was usually pretty cheerful, but today she seemed distant; as if she wanted to be anywhere other than standing in a corridor listening to a moaning teenager.
‘My work experience,’ James said indignantly. ‘What happened to Copthorne Racing? I spoke to Terry Campbell about it and everything.’
Meryl nodded sympathetically. ‘I know you had your heart set on that job, but Jay Copthorne called up and said that he’s always had boys in previous years and he’s keen to encourage more girls to go into engineering.’
‘But how come I ended up with Deluxe Chicken? I mean, what made you think I’d want to do that?’
Meryl shrugged. ‘Twenty-six cherubs will be doing two weeks’ work experience at some point over the next couple of months. I got together with the other handlers and we looked at your application forms. We gave everyone we could their first choice, but inevitably not everyone could have it and we had to assign them to the less desirable slots like Deluxe Chicken and the bowling alley.’
‘But it’s so dumb,’ James spluttered. ‘I mean, I’m not even sixteen but I’ve already got top grade A-levels in Maths and Further Maths. It’s hardly likely that I’m gonna spend my life frying chicken and wiping down tables, is it?’
‘Maybe you won’t,’ Meryl said. ‘But work experience is about going out into the world and finding what real jobs are like. We use all of our connections to get as many interesting job placements as possible and I’d love to send everyone off to some fantastic job. Unfortunately that’s not how it worked out this year.’
‘But it’s gonna be so crap,’ James moaned.
‘How can you even know if you’ll like
something until you’ve actually tried it?’
‘Because it’s with Kerry and we don’t get on these days. What if I can persuade someone to swap jobs with me?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Meryl said firmly. ‘It took ages to sort all the placements out. If you’re allowed to swap or dodge out, everyone will start asking. And I know you and Kerry have a few problems, but you regularly hang out with the same group of friends. It’s two weeks in Deluxe Chicken; it’s not like we’re abandoning the pair of you on a desert island.’
James was annoyed about not getting the job at Copthorne Racing, but Meryl was a fair person. She’d done her best for everyone, and like Shak said, luck had a way of evening out.
‘I guess I’m the chicken boy then,’ he sighed.
‘So what’s your first lesson this morning?’ Meryl asked.
James shrugged. ‘Spanish, which is OK except that Lauren’s in the same class and she runs rings around me.’
‘I guess your day can only get better,’ Meryl smiled. ‘Can I get back to my coffee, if that’s everything?’
As Meryl said this, she pushed open the door of the staff lounge. James glanced at the adults sitting inside and was surprised to see the grey head of CHERUB’s former chairman by a bay window.
‘Is that Dr McAfferty back there?’ James asked. ‘I haven’t seen him for yonks. He was a big help when I first came to campus and I wouldn’t mind saying hello if he’s around later.’
Meryl’s lips thinned as she let the door close and stepped back into the corridor. She leaned towards James and checked who was around before speaking quietly.
‘Zara Asker had to drive out to Mac’s house early this morning. His wife, daughter-in-law and two of his grandchildren were on the aircraft that crashed into the Atlantic last night.’
James felt like he’d been hit by a steamroller. ‘Bloody hell,’ he croaked, as he realised why Meryl had been acting so odd. ‘He must be in a right state.’
Meryl nodded. ‘Mac has six children, but none of them live near campus. He broke down completely when he heard the news. Zara brought him back here because there was no way he could be left on his own.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Nobody can,’ Meryl said. ‘Mac’s not fit to drive, so we’ve arranged for him to be taken down to his son’s house in London. Everyone on campus will hear about this eventually, but we’re keeping it quiet until Mac is off campus. We don’t want things to be any more awkward for him than they are already – and some of the little red shirts aren’t exactly masters of tact.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,’ James said as he shook his head numbly. ‘Poor bloody Mac.’
6. PUNCH
Fahim Bin Hassam sat on the edge of his bed pulling a long grey school sock up his chubby leg. The eleven-year-old lived in a newly built six-bedroom house which overlooked Hampstead Heath, six kilometres from the centre of London.
His room was large, with a computer, an LCD TV and Nirvana posters on the wall. CDs and Playstation games were scattered across the floor and a trail of damp footprints led from the en-suite bathroom to a luxurious salmon-pink towel and a designer bathrobe balled up on the oak floor. His mum would complain if she saw the mess, but Fahim expected the cleaning lady to get there first.
He found a pair of grey shorts and a short-sleeved beige shirt in his wardrobe, then picked a pre-knotted brown and yellow tie off the floor. It was the uniform of Warrender Prep, a fee-paying school with a proud record of preparing students for entry into the finest English upper schools. However, if the one o’clock showdown between Fahim, his mother and his headmaster went badly this might be the last time he ever wore it.
After buckling a digital watch to his wrist, Fahim exited through a set of double doors on to a thickly carpeted balcony that overlooked his home’s grand entrance. There was polished marble below and a miniature dome above.
His feet enjoyed the bouncy flooring as he moved down a curving staircase to the ground floor. At the bottom a blue-smocked housekeeper polished the marble tiles on her hands and knees. They had a machine, but Fahim’s dad hated the noise.
‘Good morning, Fahim,’ the woman said, in a dense Scottish accent.
He’d preferred her young Polish predecessor, who his dad had sacked after catching her on the phone to her boyfriend in Warsaw.
‘I left a skid mark down the side of my toilet,’ Fahim said, grinning cheekily. ‘Enjoy!’
The woman tutted, but she didn’t blame Fahim for his attitude. He’d picked it up from his father, who expected her to work overtime for no pay, despite the fact that he lived in a three-million-pound house and had two BMWs and a Bentley in the garage.
Fahim was tempted to glide into the kitchen on his socks, but he was in trouble at school so it wasn’t a good time to go around the house looking cheerful.
‘Mum,’ Fahim yelled, when he stepped into the kitchen and found it empty. ‘Mum, I’m starving.’
The room was more than ten metres long, with swanky black cabinets and granite worktops. Fahim opened the door of a giant Sub Zero fridge-freezer that cost as much as most families spend on their car.
He was pleased to find a pack of the Waitrose microwavable pancakes that he liked and he spread them out on a plate. After zapping them for thirty seconds, he squirted on chocolate sauce and added a handful of overripe strawberries.
He sat at the breakfast bar and grabbed a remote for the screen mounted on the wall. As usual his dad had switched the TV to the Al Jazeera news channel. Fahim had intended to flip around looking for a cartoon, but he was intrigued by the images of the downed airliner. As he turned up the sound he recoiled at the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen:
BRITISH GOVERNMENT SPOKESMAN SAYS THAT PROXIMITY OF ATTACK TO 6TH ANNIVERSARY OF 9/11 MAKES INVOLVEMENT OF TERRORISTS ‘HIGHLY PROBABLE’.
There were no other Arab boys at Warrender Prep and no matter how much Fahim explained that the Bin part of his name simply meant son of and was no different to a British boy with a name like Johnson or Stevenson, his schoolmates couldn’t resist calling him Bin Laden. They made jokes about his lunchbox being packed with explosives and refused to sit next to him on school trips in case he blew himself up. The plane crash would make this situation even worse.
After placing the pancake plate in the dishwasher, Fahim moved into the annexe where his father worked. This part of the house was fitted out like a commercial office, with carpet tiles, strip lighting and two offices: one for his dad and another for his uncle Asif.
As he closed on the office, Fahim heard his parents Yasmin and Hassam arguing.
‘How can you possibly be sure?’ Hassam shouted.
‘I do your bookkeeping and spreadsheets,’ his mother replied coldly. ‘There are invoices from Anglo-Irish Airlines on our system.’
‘I run a container-shipping business,’ Hassam said, pounding on his desk as his son listened from the corridor outside. ‘We have invoices from a hundred companies every day.’
‘They will investigate—’ Yasmin started, but her husband cut her dead.
‘This doesn’t concern you,’ he insisted. ‘My business is in order, while our son runs wild. You spoil him. Why don’t you deal with that, while I worry about my business?’
‘You know how they investigate,’ Yasmin said. ‘They recover every piece of debris. They lay it all out in a hanger and practically rebuild the aircraft.’
‘But nothing can be traced back to us,’ Hassam shouted. ‘I’m busy, let me work.’
‘This disgusts me. Over three hundred people are dead.’
‘Leave my office and let me work, woman.’
‘You’re not the man I married,’ Yasmin said bitterly. ‘You disgust me.’
Fahim backed down the corridor as his father roared with anger. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all the teasing he’d faced because he was Arab, the idea that his parents had something to do with a crashed airliner felt like a sick
joke.
‘Let go of my hands,’ Yasmin cried, before sobbing with pain. Fahim couldn’t see, but he knew his father was bending her fingers back, like he always did.
‘Bitch,’ Hassam yelled as he cracked his wife hard across the face. She crashed backwards on to a leather couch and sobbed noisily.
Fahim felt sick as he backed up towards the kitchen. He wished he was big enough to defend his mum, but all he could do was scurry upstairs to his room.
‘What the devil’s got into you?’ the cleaning lady asked, as Fahim’s socks skidded on the polished floor.
‘None of your business,’ he snapped angrily.
He buried his face under his pillows and tried not to cry.
*
Yasmin Hassam had grown up in the United Arab Emirates. She’d always expected to marry, bear children and become a loyal wife. While she often found herself hating Hassam Bin Hassam, she’d never considered divorcing him.
‘Did you eat breakfast?’ Yasmin asked as she walked into her son’s bedroom and found him curled under the pillows in his uniform.
Fahim rolled on to his back and saw that his mother had positioned a headscarf over her swollen eye, but no amount of make-up could disguise her fat lip.
‘Look at the state of you, Fahim,’ she said brightly, as she pulled a silk square from a pocket and spat on it before zooming in to wipe chocolate sauce off her son’s lips.
Fahim hated mum spit, but after the beating she’d taken he didn’t want to make her life any more difficult.
‘I got my own breakfast,’ he said, trying not to sound shaky. ‘I thought you must have gone into the office to help Dad with his work, so I left you to it.’
Yasmin nodded. ‘Your father is snowed under at the moment. It’ll be best if you give him and Uncle Asif a wide berth for a day or two.’
Fahim wanted to ask about the conversation he’d overheard about the airliner, but he knew his mother wouldn’t tell him and a big chunk of his brain wanted to shut it out and pretend that he’d never heard.
‘Get your shoes on,’ Yasmin said as she glanced at her watch. ‘You know what the traffic’s like. If you want we can stop on the way and get McDonalds.’